Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1964

I take a lot of ribbing at my house because I like filmed westerns.  I guess they are an escape for me as they are for many men.  Maybe they remind us of those glorious years we went through when we were kids, when we wanted nothing in life so much as to be a cowboy.  However, I pick up a lot of good ideas from some of these cowboy shows.  For example, this quote from big Ben Cartwright.  Ben said, "The hurt you feel when you tell the truth is a little shorter and less painful than the hurt you feel when you don't face the truth".  That line struck trip hammer hard and I immediately wrote it down.  How much simpler life would be if we would face the truth.  So often in our lives we turn away from the facts as we know them to be, simply because we know the truth will hurt someone else, or sometimes ourselves.  So many people today go through life living a complete lie.  When unpleasant situations arise at work or in the home, they turn away, hoping that time will change things.  So often people say things they don't mean and do things to which they are opposed simply because they can't bring themselves to look at the situation clearly and objectively.  And so they go on, waiting for the miracle that never comes.  I know it is not often easy to hurt someone with the truth but in most cases the truth is what is most urgently needed to clean up the conflicts in our lives.  Truth will often hurt, but always remember those words of Ben Cartwright.  "The hurt you feel when you tell the truth is a little shorter and a little less painful than the hurt you feel when you don't face the truth".

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1963

This thought is directed to fathers.  It could just as well apply to mothers.  Ask any father if his son loves him.  He will answer something like this.  "Certainly, I'm his father aren't I".  Well I think it's a great mistake to take the love of your child for granted.  I feel a father has to work for a child's love, he has to earn it.  The accident of birth does not give him the right to assume the child must love him.  Yet how many of us really set about to earn the love and respect of our children?  We bring home the groceries. We pay the rent.  We sign the report card and dole out the allowance.  But a child's needs to go much deeper than this.  We must get to know these little people.  We must somehow identify with them.  We have to know their strengths and their weaknesses.  We have to share their successes and their heart breaks.  We have to dream when they dream and sometimes cry when they cry.  We must shape opinions, we must mould and we must guide for we are the example after which the child will pattern himself.  It's a big order, isn't it?  How few of us ever stop to think of the tremendous trust given us in our children.  Father, and mother, don't take your child's love for granted.  Set out each day to EARN it.  If at times you find this hard, try to picture your life WITHOUT your children.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1963

A man came into my office about a year ago.  He was perhaps 34 years old.  He needed a shave, his shoes were unsigned, and his clothes, although stylishly cut, we're threadbare and soiled. He told me his story and a sad tale  it was.  He had just come out of a correctional institution.  He had lost his last three jobs because of alcohol.  His wife and child had left him and he was completely alone.  He had $.20 in his pocket and apologize for his appearance, explaining that he hadn't had the price of a room the previous night so had walked the streets.  He was a defeated, but pleasant, and I must say talented young man.  I reviewed his record with my superior and we both agreed that on the strength of his record, we had no right even talking employment.  I said to my boss, "this guy really needs a break.  He is as down and out as any man I've ever seen.  If we don't give him a break, who will"?  My superior, a very humane guy, agreed we should take a chance and hire him on for three months.  This we did.  At the end of two months we felt we might have a winner, but then one night he disappeared with a staff car and the next thing we knew he was in jail for drunk driving and for failing to report an accident.  I guess deep down both the boss and I knew it would turn out this way, but what do you do when a fellow human being needs "one more chance"?  I know a man who has devoted his whole life to helping men whom other men have written off as "derelict".  What would I do if my friend again appeared on the scene?  I think I'd try to give him another chance.  So often in my life I repeat the old phrase, "there but for the grace of God go I".

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1964

A little journey into the nostalgia today.  When I was a kid, I used to look forward to Saturday because that was the day my father took us to the market garden.  It was an exciting place full of all kinds of wonderful smells and sounds.  It was one of the biggest buildings in our city then, with what appeared to me to be miles of low counters stuffed with fresh vegetables, fruit, homemade candy, jars of preserves, boxes of honeycomb, flowers, both real and artificial, fresh killed turkeys and geese with their heads neatly wrapped in brown paper, and a thousand other things to tempt the shoppers. Behind each booth stood a contingent of farmers-turned-merchants.  The ladies were always huge and wore colorful scarves wrapped around their heads and the gentleman wore large mustaches curled up at the ends.  Most of these good souls were from Europe and as we passed by each stall, we'd here animated conversations in 20 different tongues.  The market garden was sort of a roofed-in year-round country fair, and to me it was always exciting and friendly.  I remember how we'd always take a walk through the parking area, where ancient trucks or teams of horses would be tied up awaiting completion of the days business inside. Alongside many of the wagons we'd find wooden boxes containing small puppies or kittens or live foul, and every week we begged father for a pup, and every week he'd say" maybe next Saturday".  The old market still stands in my town, but there is talk of tearing it down. Those wonderful merchants have been sort of crowded out and frankly, I think we're a little poorer for it.  The market always remind me, even as a kid, that we do indeed spring from the soil, live by it, and ultimately returned to it.  I'd be sorry to see it go.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1963

On my uncle's farm there stood a tall and ancient pine tree.  I remember back 30 years and it was a towering tree even then.  Three of us would join hands to see if we could encircle it's trunk.  During high winds, it was the one tree that never seem to lose branches.  It bore the scars of several direct hits by lightning.  I love that old tree for it seemed to me that nothing could really harm it.  Nature sent its worst against it time and time again, yet it still stood there, tall and strong and straight.  I went back to see the old tree this summer. It was leveled to the ground.   I looked closely at it and saw what had happened.  An army of beetles had burrowed through it's bark and attacked it's very heart.  Little by little they chewed away at this great tree until it crumbled and fell to earth.  Lightning and wind and the passing of time could never harm this tree, yet those small bugs, which you could squash between your fingers had brought it down.  I thought to myself, how like human beings that old tree was.  Somehow we survived the major storms of life.  Business failures, the death of those near and dear to us, the disappointments and heartbreaks we all have to face seldom bring us to our knees.  It's those beetles of day to day worry that eventually kill us.  We handle the big troubles only to succumb to the small.  We clear the high fences, then stumble over the low rails.  If you are a worrier, think about that old tree.  There is a good lesson there if you'll but heed it.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1963

There is one all important law of human conduct.  If we obey the law, we shall almost never get into trouble.  In fact, that law, if obeyed, will bring us countless friends and constant happiness.  But the very instant we break that law, we shall get into endless trouble.  The law is this: Professor William James says:  "The deepest principle in human nature is the craving to be appreciated".

The unvarnished truth is that almost every man you meet feels himself superior to you in some way; and a sure way to his heart is to let him realize in some subtle way that you recognize his importance in his world, and recognize it sincerely.  Remember what Emerson said: "Every man I meet is in some way my superior;  and in that I can learn of him."

You don't have to wait until you are ambassador to France or chairman of the clambake committee of the Elks club before you use this philosophy of appreciation. You can work magic with it almost every day.  Little phrases like "I am sorry to trouble you", "would you mind", " thank you", - little courtesies like that oil the cogs of the monotonous grind of everyday life - and incidentally, they are the hallmark of good breeding.

Would you like to know how to make a woman fall in love with you?  Well, here is the secret.  It is not my idea.  I borrowed it from Dorothy Dix.  She once interviewed a celebrated bigamist who had won the hearts and bank accounts  of 23 women.  (And by the way, it ought to be noted that she interviewed him in jail).  When she asked him his recipe for making women fall in love with him, he said it was no trick at all:  all you had to do was talk to a woman about herself.

And the same technique works with men;  "Talk to a man about himself", said Disraeli, one of the shrewdest men who ever ruled the British Empire, "and he will listen for hours".

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1964

A few weeks ago I drove with my family over the Banff - Jasper highway, surely one of the most beautiful spots in the world.  The passes are high through there, and often you find yourself up at or beyond the timberline.  The trees are mostly evergreens and they are small, round and perfectly straight.  There are millions of them on each mountainside, crowded so closely together that it would be hard to walk through them.  I noticed that all of the lower branches of the trees were dead.  The only branches that showed life with those at the top of the tree.  Smaller trees, those which couldn't reach up to the light had died completely.  I looked at those forests and I thought how like people those trees are, each one striving for a place in the sun, each one looking for a little light and a little warmth.  In this rough, tough competitive world we all must find our spot. Too many of us are like the little trees that can't break out of the mass and wither away and die in obscurity, lost and unlamented.  In our day to day dealings with people, I think it is well to remember that everyone needs some recognition, the girl who sets your hair, the man who adjusts your carburetor, the clerk who sorts the files, the operator who answers the phone, all have to feel necessary.  Like the trees on the mountain-side if we find a little place of our own, if we can find OUR place in the sun, then we can grow to be worthwhile human beings.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta Canada in 1963

Mother, how often did you say it?  How often did you say "Boy, will I be glad when they're both off to school...out from under my feet".  To you that was to be the 'D' day for deliverance,...your time of liberation...the day when you'd be free of those yelling, kicking, crying, cookie-begging, little characters who gave you no piece from sun-up till sunset.  Well, many of you have had your big day, but it wasn't all like you thought it would be, was it?  There was probably a big lump in your throat as you dressed the second little boy for his first day of school, and you wondered where the years had gone since the day you brought him into the world.  And big brother...(it's old hat for him - heck he's in grade four now)...he stands by to teach the little guy the ropes...and he even forgives his little brother a few anxious tears.  Big brother stands by at the appointed time, takes little brother by the hand and with shining morning faces, they start off across the busy thoroughfare...into a new world.  You no doubt stood by the window and  watched them go and wondered what had happened to your big day...how come no cheering...no music...no streamers...only a pang of regret and bewilderment.  You look again and you think maybe you can see a tear in the little man's eye...and to you...your six-year-old never looked so small - and you fight back your own tears and the urge to run after him and bring him back home.  You watch till they are out of sight...then you sit down and drink the last cup of morning coffee and say a silent prayer and ask God to look after your littlest angel, and pray that he'll learn the ways of the world well...but gently.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta Canada in 1963

A friend and I were talking the other day about the kind of world in which our children are growing up.  We were lamenting the fact that there were so many things about which these kids would not know. To mention just a few, did you ever spend a cold winter night on the farm, and off in the distance, when the night was dark and cool, you'd hear the whistle on the train, a long and lonely whistle that would trigger all kinds of wonderful dreams?  You'd hear that lonesome wail as you snuggled deeper into the feather tick and you'd wonder where the train was going and what famous people might be on board.   Well, that great sound is gone forever.  It has been replaced by something that could be a bus horn or a truck, a big ugly puff of sound that just hasn't the appeal of the old train whistle.  My friend mentioned too, that our kids have never seen a streetcar.  That means they've never had the great fun of flipping trolleys.  Boy, that used to be our favorite outdoor sport up on 124th St. at 8th Avenue.  All you had to do was pull the guy wire that was attached to the post supporting the trolley wires, and off would pop the trolley.  Sounds silly now, but it was great fun then.
Oh, there are a lot of things our kids will miss.  Things like running boards where you could hang on while your Dad drove the car at 10 miles an hour.  Rumble seats...where you stay even if you froze to death, the friendly, warm flicker of a coal oil lamp on your Grandpa's farm, wind-up Victrola's and Tiger Moth's, open cockpit airplanes where you could actually SEE the pilot and you would always wave, but he would never wave back.
Yes, these things our kids will never know.  Somehow today I get the feeling that things are moving too fast...or am I just slowing up?

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio - September 14th, 1960

I noticed an ad in the paper last night....FOR SALE..... one baby's bed.  Imagine, someone wants to sell a baby's bed.  But this just isn't right somehow.  That little bed holds too many precious memories.  True, it's not much to look at, but oh, the stories it could tell.  The painted rabbits and cherubs that used to fly about the headboard are faded and gone now, but that's easy to explain.  Don't you remember when the little one was so sick and you had to have the steamer on night and day and speaks to the lonely vigil and waited for the crisis to pass?  That, plus small, patient, prying fingers have taken their toll of these once bright decorations.  And look at the guard rail, once so straight and bright and new.  Look at the many little teethmarks there where the paint has been chewed away.  That rail played its part in helping a smallmouth push through a tiny tooth or two.  The spring is a little worse for wear...but then it should be, for didn't baby use it as a trampoline for two years?  Yes...there are so many memories here.  Memories of years of tucking in...of kissing good night...countless middle of night drinks of water...of damp, tussled heads in the heat of summer and cold, pink cheeks and noses when the frost was on the window...of infant smells like Johnson's Baby Powder and Babies Own soap, memories of pink blankets that started out straight but ended up in a small irregular ball in the corner of the crib...of small behinds pushed into the air, with knees pulled up tight and faces buried in downy pillows...of laughter...of tears...of hopes...of prayers...of fears.  No, you can't sell a baby's bed without tearing your heart half out.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta Canada in 1963

I sat at my typewriter recently hoping an idea would come for one of these short inspirational articles.  My eyes wandered and I noticed a small boy perched on a high board fence across the way.  He dangled his legs over the side of the fence as if to jump, then pulled them back again.  He sat a few moments, then again prepared to make the leap, and again retreated.  Finally he bit his lower lip, threw his legs over the side and down he plunged to the ground below.  He got up, brushed himself off and whistling happily, trotted off down the street.  He had met the challenge of the high fence and in spite of his fear had made the jump and one more obstacle to growing up was behind him.  You know childhood is a time of faith and energy.  Each challenge as it comes along is met and overcome.  But as we grow older we often lose ours zest for meeting and beating the things that stand in our way impeding our progress.  Instead of overcoming these obstacles, we move cautiously around them, avoiding them completely if we can.  This is unfortunate, for if life remains a challenge; if we have the heart and the zest for life we see in small children, then indeed we never ever really grow old.   Regardless of your years, youth is yours as long as you meet and regard each day as a delightful and rewarding experience.

Originally broadcast on CHED Radio, Edmonton, Alberta Canada in 1963

Most modern cities have laid down some hard and fast rules about the handling of garbage. I know in my town the citizens are forced to be downright clinical about this business. Indeed it is often difficult to determine whether that neat little package on the signboard is a box lunch, laundry fresh from the plant, or the leavings of last nights table going out to the refuse can. This new approach to the old problem of garbage carries itself to the extreme when we come to deal with the leaves we rake up off the lawn in the fall. That's where I got into trouble last fall.  In our town the leaves are to be raked up and neatly placed in containers to be left for pick up. (For this purpose most folks use those plastic bags that the dry cleaning comes back in). Now to me there is no smell in the world like that of clean burning leaves in the crisp fall air, and so after filling three bags with leaves, I neatly piled a few I had left over and set them afire. To escape detection, I performed this deed late in the evening under cover of darkness. Nevertheless, I got caught. The magistrate before whom I appeared must have been a man with a soul because when I told him I just wanted to smell Burning leaves a few more times before I passed on, he smiled and said he fully understood. He went on to explain however that the law has to be upheld and fined me five dollars. I have thought that whole matter over since then and come to the conclusion that it was the best five dollars I ever spent.